Sacrifice
by Drumboy100
Summary: King Thranduil's anguished discussion with his son Legolas after he hears of the One Ring and sends him to fight for Middle Earth.


"Legolas Thranduillian."

I stopped abruptly mid-stride, cautiously assessing King Thranduil. He stood staring out at the south side of the Wooded Realms. His silhouette remained perfectly, almost rigidly still, and I could barely make out his look of solemn concentration. "You summoned me, sir?"

Several seconds passed before he responded quietly, "Yes I did." Thranduil turned to face me, a look of weary trepidation on his face. He closed the gap between us with four slow, hesitating steps, and leaned backwards against his desk.

I stood before him and waited patiently. He looked over my shoulder vaguely, appearing to struggle with words. Eventually he forced himself to make out, "Lord Elrond is summoning a council in Rivendell."

That didn't answer any of my questions, but it appeared to take some of the burden off his shoulders. Tension radiated off his body. He eventually continued, "Many various races will be convening—men, elves, dwarves, hobbits—"

"Dwarves?" I interrupted contemptously. "Defiling Lord Elrond's table? And what is a hobbit?"

"Oh, an obscure race that tends to keep to themselves," Thranduil dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Legend says that they're a little smaller than dwarves, only somehow lazier and like to eat more."

I hadn't realized that was within the realm of possibility. "So what is the subject of this council, my lord? And do you bring it to my attention so I can be the steward of Mirkwood while you are gone, or are you sending me in your—"

A soft cry escaped his lips, and he bent over at the waist as if he were in pain. I reached forward and gripped an elbow to steady him. "I'll inform the healers—"

"No!" He forced himself to straighten. He breathed evenly for several seconds, and finally met my eyes. "There is an evil forming, an evil unlike any that we have ever known under the sun. It is great, and its eye pierces everything and knows all. It hunts…this council includes many races because this evil affects us all, the entire Middle Earth as we know it."

"Then we will go to war," I responded simply.

"It cannot be fought that way unless we have no other choice. The odds of our survival are even slimmer if we fight with open warfare."

I became annoyed at this lengthy introduction, and fought to hide it. "So your wishes are for me to attend this council?"

"No," he said softly. "No, I wouldn't like you to. It will be the most hated action I have ever been forced to take. But I do not have your type of training and experience, I cannot go."

King Thranduil was obviously on edge, but I felt none of his emotions without knowing the facts that prompted them. "What is the nature of this evil?"

"I have decided not to tell you. You will need to hear the facts for the first time with the others, and only then can you and they come to any plan of action."

I stared at him incredulously. "What? Why? Then I ask you to give me a vague riddle to solve, anything."

"I already have, and I'll say no more. You may take some kind of rash action, when you will need to force yourself to act as a group instead. This is their world, too, that they will be fighting for." Suddenly he grasped my arm tightly, staring at me with wild intensity. "I know you, Greenleaf, you'll be the first to volunteer!" he growled, a slight moan in his voice.

"Yes, of course I'll be the first!" I rejoined loudly, masking the pain from his fanatical grip. "Unless you order me not to. You are my king."

"I order…I order…" he faded off, unable to finish, and released his grip. Stepping back, he met my gaze once again. I realized with a shock that he suddenly looked his age. The sun had set without our acknowledgment, and we now stood in darkness except for one moonbeam from a window that brought out several fine wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. I had seen the king in many states of passion, but never this look of utter defeat.

"Are you happy here, young one?" he asked suddenly. "Is this what you wanted from your life?"

I was taken aback. I answered, subdued, "Yes…well, it was always expected that Mirkwood is where I belonged, I never really questioned…" It was my turn to fade out. I suddenly wished that I had something to do with my hands. I was comfortable in battle, in meditation, even at tedious political events, but I was not comfortable at this. I clasped my hands behind me.

"Well, did you…have I given you everything that you needed from me?"

"Everything, my king."

"No, not…not just as a king. Was there anything else you needed?"

At times weeks would pass before I remembered with a jolt that we were related. It wasn't that our relationship was strained; ours was one of a business manager to a trusted head of staff, or an expert to an apprentice. We did not mention my mother; we did not show any kind of vulnerability. We discussed plans, strategies, events, and occasionally people. I forced myself to give the answer that was required. "No, my liege."

Thranduil once again returned to the window, and I stiffly, dutifully followed, keeping a respectful distance. Elves tend not to like the indoors, and our first coping skill is to turn to nature. "After all," he said, musing thoughtfully, "I was preparing you for the ruthlessness of the throne. A king must always be on his guard, must show strict justice and quick cunning, and stay one step ahead of his friends and his enemies alike. A king must know a steady and consistent tolerance of pain."

My muscles tightened between my shoulder blades. I had been born an adult, and it had not been my own choice. My stoicism weakened as I mentally transported to the nights long ago when the king had exhausted his shoulder whittling me into submission, my torso trembling on his desk in fearful anticipation of the next stroke. This was not the elven way, but it was the king of Mirkwood's way. "Yet surely there must also be room for mercy, sire," I said with more vehemence than I had intended.

He flinched at the sound of emotion stirring in my voice. "Yes. Yes, there is."

I felt a flash of irritation. In all probability, he was insinuating that I should now forgive him for offenses that he was not even willing to admit. Why he should wish to do this in the middle of a fact-gathering conversation, I did not know—

I suddenly realized what the purpose of this interview was. "You believe that you are sending me to my death," I said in wondering horror.

Instantly a look of unadulterated mental and physical anguish shot across his features, and he leaned against the windowsill for support. "I will send Mirkwood's very best warriors with you—they are under orders to guard you with their lives—"

"I am proud to give my life for Mirkwood, and for all of Middle Earth, on whatever strange quest that you're sending me on that you choose not to tell me about." I stood rigidly, trembling with restrained passion. "Whatever else you need from me, ask plainly."

He turned his eyes on me, eyes filled with several emotions vying for dominance, as he started gripping his tunic like he was possessed. "I need to know that you have been satisfied with your life, if there is anything you need from me before you go."

"Am I to be comforting you, when I am the one facing death?" I asked with a menacing step toward him, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "I cannot give you absolution, and I have no task on a checklist that you can quickly mark off before I go."

At my words, the king gripped either side of his head and began stumbling around the room. I had no desire to see him in such an undignified manner. "Guards! Guards, please help!" I called as he began knocking into the furniture. I began backing away to the closest exit, and quickly took my leave when I heard running footsteps approaching.

Had I but turned back then, and looked out once more on to the moonlit room, I would have seen that which would have made my own sufferings seem but light and easy to bear-a strong man, overwhelmed with his own despair. Pride had given way at last, obstinacy was gone: the will was powerless. He was but a man madly, blindly overcome by his own paternal love, and as soon as my light footsteps had died away, he knelt down upon the wooden floor, and in the very madness of his love he kissed one by one the places where my foot had trodden, and the windowsill where my hand had rested last.


End file.
